


Getting Out

by TheMuchTooMerryMaiden



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Partner, Abusive Relationship, Brothers, Domestic Violence, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Physical abuse of a child, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-15
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-31 06:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMuchTooMerryMaiden/pseuds/TheMuchTooMerryMaiden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft misses a couple of appointments Anthea becomes worried and goes to see his brother...</p><p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/14213.html?thread=78263941#t78263941">this</a> kinkmeme prompt</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was, when all was said and done, a matter of pride. The face he would show to the outside world would never reveal the difficulties which he experienced at home, which were after all his own fault. Having applied the concealer with his usual deftness Mycroft carefully surveyed the result. Good, good, he thought, no one will know that I was stupid enough to upset him again.

Standing up Mycroft winced slightly, he had spent too long in the cold and the bruised muscles of his torso had stiffened up in protest but David had said that he must leave the house so that he might have some respite from his incessant stupidity and Mycroft had done as he was asked, he owed that much to David to make up for his unacceptable behaviour. Working quickly and carefully and above all neatly Mycroft put away his effects, making sure that everything was where it should be and as it should be. In the end it was a simple thing that brought Mycroft's world crashing down around his ears; as he turned around, his trailing hand caught a small decorative vase that was kept on the dressing table. Mycroft’s petrified, whispered oath could not be heard above the roar of rage from the next room. Despite himself Mycroft cowered even though he knew it infuriated David.

After the first four blows he lost consciousness.

* * *

It had been an ordinary morning right up until John went to answer the door and found Anthea (or whatever she was called this morning) there.

“Hello,” he said the confusion clear in his voice, “come in. What does Mycroft want?” when she didn’t immediately reply he began to feel a degree of nervousness, “Has something happened to Mycroft?” Anthea didn’t reply directly,

“Is his brother here?”

“Yes, he isn’t up yet but come in and I’ll roust him out of bed.”

It took some considerable shouting on John’s behalf, Sherlock just off a case was in the process of catching up his sleep, and in the end he had to risk life and sanity by going into Sherlock’s room to wake him, but in ten minutes, Sherlock was up and if not dressed then at least covered. When he saw Anthea he reached the same conclusion that John had,

“What’s happened to Mycroft?”

“I don’t even know if anything has but he has missed two important appointments already today and I couldn’t get any answer at the house. I wondered if you knew anything.” 

“Have you spoken to David?” John could hear the distaste in Sherlock’s voice and was sure it was mirrored in his own expression as well as in Anthea’s,

“He said that he had no idea where Mycroft might be. I was disinclined to believe him.”

 

Despite David’s assurances that Mycroft was not at the house between them they decided that it was the only sensible place to start looking. Anthea had expressed the opinion that perhaps they should make this official, Mycroft after all was a potential security nightmare and if he’d been kidnapped then there were steps which needed to be taken. She allowed herself to be dissuaded quite easily though, especially when John pointed out (more gently than Sherlock would have done) that David’s apparent unconcern that Mycroft was missing almost certainly meant that he knew where Mycroft was and why he was not at work.

While they discussed this Sherlock was uncharacteristically quiet, almost abstracted John thought. 

“Are you all right, Sherlock?” John asked as they approached the house, “Are you really that worried about him?” Anthea and Sherlock spoke simultaneously,

“He never misses an appointment. It must be something serious.” The two of them scowled at each other. 

 

They got the driver to park three or four blocks from the house Mycroft shared with his partner and Sherlock made a visible effort to pull himself together,

“When we get there, John, you go up to the house, David’s only seen you the once and you can be fairly nondescript when you try.”

“Cheers for that,” John answered with a tight grin, 

“If we’re lucky Mycroft will answer the door and all we’ll have left to do is make his life a misery about the missed appointments,” Sherlock continued,

“And what if we’re unlucky?” Anthea asked,

“Well then John gives the signal and we break in!” Sherlock grinned wolfishly.

 

It almost seemed anticlimactic when no one answered the door despite John’s repeated and loud hammering. He gave the signal, a loud wolf whistle and Sherlock and Anthea scurried around the corner of the hedge and up the drive.

“That was the signal?” Anthea asked while Sherlock got to work on the large number of locks on the door, “subtle, you two, very subtle.”

“We tried subtle,” John grinned, “it never really worked for us.”

“What added security systems are there that we need to know about?” Sherlock asked, addressing Anthea.

“Well,” she replied, “you did the locks in the right order, when you get inside you absolutely must wipe your feet,”

“Typical Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered,

“And then it’s just the alarm code, which I think I know,” Anthea finished.

“Right then,” Sherlock said, gathering the three of them together with a glance he pushed open the door.

 

After they had gone through the procedures Anthea had outlined, excepting the alarm code which had not been activated in the first place, they stood in the hall.

“So,” John whispered, “do we go through the house?” Sherlock shook his head and instead merely bellowed,

“Mycroft, are you here?” and then paused with his head on one side to listen. They all heard the faint moan coming from upstairs. John looked round before he pulled his browning from where it nestled in the back of his waist band. Anthea nodded her approval and Sherlock gestured for John to go first as they went up the stairs. 

They found Mycroft in the bathroom.

* * *

_It’s because he’s incoherent,_ Sherlock thought as he fought to discipline his mind enough to work out what had happened to Mycroft, _he ought to be rational, he’s always rational._ Sherlock and Anthea had watched in silence while John knelt without apparently even noticing the blood soaking into his trousers to assess the state Mycroft was in. He’d kept up a running commentary as he’d checked Mycroft out, broken ribs, cuts where heavy blows had broken the skin, concussion, contusions and abrasions, and the formal medical terms had allowed Sherlock to keep a detached emotional distance from what had happened, but when Mycroft had begun to speak and to weep and hadn’t been able to be coherent, Sherlock’s detachment and his deductive faculties had taken a back seat to the overwhelming desire to end the person or persons who had done this. It was startling to feel this for Mycroft after all this time; the reversion to child hood was disconcerting to say the least. Then he hadn’t been able to protect Mycroft, he’d been too small, too weak and when he’d finally made the attempt everything had been such a mess, this time he was determined that he would. John’s voice snapped him back to reality,

“Sherlock, give me a hand to get Mycroft up, Anthea, have you called the police?” Sherlock moved on the order, some part of him glad to have direction, something to focus on beyond the burning desire for violence, but was brought up short by another order, this time from Mycroft,

“Anthea, do not ring the police.” Mycroft’s voice was still shaky but the note of command was unmistakeable,

“Why the hell not?” John asked, “You’ve clearly been thumped by someone, this needs sorting out.”

“No police,” Mycroft insisted, “David would never forgive me if I outsiders were brought into this. It was my own fault; I should not have been so clumsy.”

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock snapped, “Why would David not want the police involved, Mycroft you’re not making any sense.”

“I will not have the police called.” Mycroft insisted mulishly, “Doctor Watson has been good enough to tend to my wounds. I will not have my situation become a source of gossip and innuendo. David would never forgive me.”

“What would David have to forgive?” asked Anthea, gently.

“I cannot and will not have policemen traipsing through my, our home.” Mycroft snapped.

Considering the fact that the conclusion was obvious, Sherlock was astonished and disgusted at himself that it took until that point for him to realise that it must have been David who had done this. Mycroft even through his concussion saw the moment Sherlock worked it out and the look of pleading he shot Sherlock for once had the desired effect. Sherlock shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth. _How could I have missed this_ he wondered. _It’s because it’s Mycroft, the one who’s always in control. Oh, fuck, has this been going on for years and I missed seeing it?_ Sherlock was pulled out of his contemplation by John demanding again that he help him get Mycroft to his feet. John was speaking,

“...you are definitely going to have to go to the hospital; I’m not even having the argument,”

“I will not,” Mycroft replied with a note of petulance in his voice. Sherlock caught his eye and the threat in his look would have been obvious to someone a lot less bright than Mycroft, _It’s the hospital or I tell everyone what I’ve worked out._ Mycroft shut up, stopped protesting but whether that was because he realised he would have to be checked over or because the simple act of getting to his feet was causing so much pain that he couldn’t spare the effort to speak.

* * *

It was clear that getting into the car was going to be difficult verging on the impossible for Mycroft and in the end they sent the driver away and Sherlock hailed a cab leaving John wondering how the hell it was that cabs miraculously appeared whenever Sherlock needed one. It was a brief enough distraction, by the time they got to Bart’s Mycroft was pale even by his high standards of pale and sweating, clearly in a vast amount of pain, although he had made the effort to rebutton his shirt and jacket.

Once in casualty Sherlock handed over the terse details asked for by the receptionist, while John left Mycroft with Anthea to go and pull what strings he could to get him seen right away. When a nurse came to get Mycroft, Anthea, John and Sherlock all stood up to go with him. Mycroft passed a hand over his face at their reaction before saying quietly,

“I will be fine; you do not need to accompany me.” Sherlock and Anthea both tried to interrupt him at the same time, but John took charge,

“Right, Sherlock, Anthea, sit down. I’ll go with Mycroft.” Unspoken in his command was the understanding that he was a doctor, bound by the Hippocratic Oath and required to respect patient confidentiality.

“Thank you,” Mycroft responded almost too quietly to be heard. Sherlock and Anthea managed identical disgruntled looks before sinking back into the uncomfortable waiting room chairs.

 

“OK, Mr Holmes, could you take off your jacket and shirt?” the doctor asked, “and tell me what happened.” Mycroft began to shrug off his jacket and winced from the pain as he moved his left shoulder.

“Here, I’ll help,” John said, stepping forward and as gently as possible he eased Mycroft’s jacket off his shoulders and then off each arm in turn. It was still painful but at least slightly easier. The shirt, being closer fitting was more difficult and Mycroft was sweating again by the time it was removed.

As soon as John and the harassed casualty doctor got a look at Mycroft’s injuries it was clear that he could see what had happened. When Mycroft’s torso was uncovered a clear footprint bruise could be seen to the left of his sternum with other fresh bruises some surrounding tears and abrasions all over his torso. And worse, beneath the recent damage there were other, fading bruises. Both medical men were used to keeping their own reactions to a minimum when presented with injuries but the casualty doctor couldn’t help but suck in a breath through his teeth, before standing up straighter and addressing John,

“Sorry, can I just ask what your connection is with Mister Holmes?” John and Mycroft both realised the conclusions the man had jumped to at the same time, Mycroft was after all mildly concussed.

“No, doctor,” he answered, “Dr Watson is not responsible for my injuries. He is a friend of my brother’s and is here since it was my brother and my assistant who found me.”

John almost felt that he ought to applaud as Mycroft strove to manage his usual urbane, in control persona, whilst sat, shirtless, bruised and bloody in a busy casualty department. The doctor however looked dubious and was still regarding John with suspicion,

“If you don’t mind, I would rather examine Mr Holmes on his own.” 

John nodded; it was standard operating procedure, the doctor needed to make sure that he was getting the full story from Mycroft without an abusive partner cueing him as to his rehearsed excuses and explanations. It was just a shame that the doctor didn’t know that he was likely to get more honest answers with John there,

“I’ll be out with Sherlock and Anthea if you need us.”

 

Sherlock stood up abruptly when John came back into the waiting room, a brief, soon covered up look of panic on his face before his posture relaxed to a casual almost slouch that fooled no one,

“How is he?”

“Not sure yet,” John replied, running a harassed hand over his face and through his hair, “the doctor wanted to see him on his own, in case it was me who did this to him.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Sherlock exclaimed,

“No, no it isn’t,” came John’s tired reply, “it’s quite common for an abuser to bring their victim to casualty and to seem solicitous and caring, I’ve seen it myself and I really didn’t spend that much time working in casualty, I’ve even seen it at the surgery.” John paused, looking carefully at Sherlock, “Are you OK?”

“Of course I am, why would I not be?” Sherlock said, bristling apparently at the idea that any of this might bother him. John held his gaze until Sherlock finally looked away and muttered, “I will be when I know Mycroft’s all right, when I deal with whoever...”

It was a small noise from Anthea that interrupted him. Both men turned to look at her, focussed apparently as she always was on her Blackberry. As far as Sherlock was concerned it was as though she had made an accusation,

“Yes, I am aware that it was David who did this, I’m not an imbecile.” John wished that he didn’t also know this; it would be so much easier on everyone involved if this had been a random aggravated burglary, if David was here to comfort Mycroft and make him feel better. John did know however that he had to prevent Sherlock from doing anything rash with regards to his brother’s partner,

“We don’t know that for sure,” John paused to take in Sherlock’s beyond sceptical expression, “and we do know that Mycroft didn’t even want us to know this had happened. You can’t just wade in two footed, Sherlock. David’s already taken a lot of his self-respect away from him, made him into a victim, if you ‘deal with this’ then you will be continuing David’s wonderful work.” 

“How long has this been going on?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m sorry, love, but I’m still a doctor, I’m not going to break confidentiality for you, I...” John was interrupted by a quiet voice from Anthea,

“I’m not a doctor, although I may get fired for this. It’s been going on almost from the start.”

“What?” both men asked at the same time,

“I said,” Anthea replied with a long suffering sigh, “it’s been going on almost from when he met David. I believe the first time that David struck him was the second time that David stayed the night with Mycroft. It has continued with greater or lesser frequency since then.”

Sherlock slumped down onto the same seat that he had risen from and then leaned forward with his head in his hands but John continued to stare at Anthea,

“Did you say anything?” he asked.

“I’ve tried more than once and had it made more than clear to me that it was none of my business. I suspect he’ll fire me just for contacting the two of you when he didn’t get to his appointments this morning, so I’ve nothing to lose now,” She smiled at that, and John thought it was probably for once a genuine smile, “To be honest it’ll be a relief, I’ve hated watching him cover up for that creep, seeing him wince from the pain when he thinks I’m not looking. How bad is it, really, Dr Watson?”

“It’s nothing life-threatening at the moment,” John replied as he sat down, “but it could easily be life-threatening if it happens again before he’s fully healed. He came close to a proper flail injury and with that much damage to the rib cage any further violence could land him with a punctured lung.” John looked across at Sherlock and realised that he’d said too much. Sherlock confirmed this with his next question,

“The swine stamped on him?”

There was no dodging the question and, after all he wasn’t Mycroft’s doctor as such,

“It looked like it. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock took a couple of slow, deep breaths before he spoke again,

“You should know, John, Anthea, I’m going to kill him,” it was said calmly and with deliberation but as John looked at him he could see the lost look in Sherlock’s eyes, “and then I’m going to kill Mycroft for letting himself be treated like that, he of all people should have known better.”

“It happens to a lot of people, you know,” John said gently, “it’s not something that people bring on themselves.”

“That’s immaterial,” Sherlock snapped, “Mycroft should have known better.”

John got up and swapped seats so that he was sat next to Sherlock, pulling Sherlock’s arm towards him until he could link hands with him and they sat like that with Sherlock staring at the wall.

 

It was half an hour later when a nurse came towards them and asked Sherlock to come with her to Mycroft. Sherlock looked surprised, and then looked round at John,

“No, sir, he asked to just see you,” the nurse said and Sherlock got up and followed her back towards the curtained off cubicles.

Sherlock was unused to not having complete control over his apparent emotions and certainly in the normal run of events would have expected to have been able to school himself into a good semblance of any emotion with this much warning but by the time he was ushered into Mycroft’s cubicle he was horribly aware of the fact that he still wasn’t under control. When Mycroft smiled at him in an attempt at reassurance, all he could do was slump into the chair with his head in his hands fighting not to give into tears.

“Hush, Sherlock, hush, I’m fine,” murmured Mycroft and Sherlock felt a hand gently stroking his hair, just as Mycroft had done when he was small, when he was learning to feign emotions. Not trusting himself to speak for the moment, Sherlock accepted his brother’s caresses and comfort.

Eventually he sat up and began to look at Mycroft analytically, taking in the extent of his injuries almost reaching out to touch the now much clearer bruises on his face but restraining himself at the last moment.

“You were using concealer?” he asked and Mycroft answered with a simple nod of his head. Finally having looked his fill Sherlock asked the question that had been straining through him since they’d found Mycroft semi-conscious in his bathroom, “Why? You of all people should have known better Mycroft!” There was almost a plea in Sherlock’s voice and Mycroft didn’t even try to pretend that he didn’t understand everything that Sherlock was asking,

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t see that it was the same, he was always so sorry afterwards and at first it wasn’t so ... much, I just kept doing things that annoyed him, no matter how much I tried not to...” his voice faltered, “it never occurred to me that it must have seemed that way to her also. He said he was sorry, he said he loved me and I forgave him. I... I didn’t want to be without him, I’d been on my own for such a long time... It wasn’t until I saw myself as I must seem to you and to John that I realised.” Mycroft’s breathing hitched slightly and Sherlock realised that he was crying. The last time Sherlock had seen him cry had been that last time, the time when he’d tried to help for all the good that had done anyone.

Sherlock got up and put his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder,

“I will help this time.”

“You always helped.”


	2. Chapter 2

The decision was taken to admit Mycroft, if for no other reason than he could be given stronger pain relief in the hospital. He tried to argue, to insist that he should go home which all three of them vetoed or that he could go to Baker Street which John vetoed at least until it could be made more comfortable for someone who had taken a beating. 

Under duress, Mycroft agreed to let Anthea cancel his appointments at least until the day after tomorrow, John wondered why it was that all of a sudden one stern look from Sherlock was enough to stop his brother in his tracks.

“We’ll be back later,” John said as they were leaving, “we’ll call back at your place to pick up the things you’ll need.” 

Mycroft, who was already pale, became paler still, the bruises showing more starkly against his sudden whiteness.

“Don’t ... you won’t ... David,” he seemed to lose the words but he looked up at John as if willing him to understand,

“Don’t worry, with anything like a bit of luck we won’t even see David, and if we do I won’t let Sherlock do anything stupid. We won’t tell him where you are.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft paused, before blurting out, “if he wants to know where I am...” John cut him off,

“No, Mycroft, you need to be strong. If he comes here all apologetic and remorseful then it will be bloody hard for you to tell him where to shove it. You need time to heal before you deal with him again. I’m not, we’re not going to tell him where you are, he won’t be here.” He reached out a hand and clasped Mycroft’s less injured shoulder,

“You must think me such an idiot,” Mycroft murmured,

“No, I just think you had the world’s worst luck when you found David, you’re not responsible for that. You will come to us when you’re released, won’t you?” he asked but it was clear to everyone that it was not really a question. Mycroft nodded briefly in acquiescence.

“Could I have one more private word with my brother?” he asked and John and Anthea walked out of the small side room leaving Sherlock. “You should tell John.” Mycroft said simply.

“He doesn’t need that misery foisted on him.”

“No, no he doesn’t, but then he didn’t need my misery foisted on him either. Did you have to ask him to accompany you and Anthea?”

“No, of course not,” Sherlock snapped,

“I thought not. He is, to all intents and purposes, family. To you,” he paused and smiled briefly, “to us family is a difficult concept, we lack good role models I think you would agree,” Sherlock gave a mirthless huff of laughter in response to this, “quite,” continued Mycroft, “let him in Sherlock, let him understand your reactions to this, don’t make him guess.”

 

To be honest John wasn’t sure whether he wanted David to be at home or not. Obviously it would be easier to pick up clothes and other essentials for Mycroft if David was not there but part of John had an overwhelming urge to test the old adage that violence was not the answer, he thought that this time it just might be. Sitting between Sherlock and Anthea as they went back to Mycroft’s home he could feel the tension building and he realised that probably the other two were feeling the same.

In the end the visit was uneventful. It took them about a quarter of an hour to pick up the things that Mycroft would need including the book he was reading, clothes for a few days and his toothbrush and other toiletries. For a moment John had a flash of how difficult this must be for people who finally leave without anything, with only the clothes on their backs; even without the three of them to get his stuff Mycroft was in a position to buy what he needed.

Anthea elected to take the stuff back to the hospital leaving John and Sherlock to go back to Baker Street and get John’s room into a state that was acceptable for use by a visitor. John and Sherlock would share his room, not an uncommon situation for the two of them these days but John would still feel a little more comfortable if he could rid the room of at least some of the ongoing experiments. The surprising thing was how co-operative Sherlock was being about it all, pulling his weight with the clean up, not arguing about binning some of his more rancid experiments. 

“This has really got to you, hasn’t it?” John asked when they’d sat down with a cup of tea once John was satisfied with the flat. Sherlock did not reply, John wasn’t even sure he’d heard him; he seemed so distracted and scattered. John persisted, “Tell me you’re not plotting ways to kill David then I can relax a little.” That got a response,

“No, I’ve already worked out what to do about him.”

“Seriously, Sherlock, you need not to do any of the things you’re plotting. You can’t go down to his level, all you’ll do is confirm to him that violence is the answer, plus you might make him into such a pathetic case that Mycroft takes him back and we get to do this all over again six months from now and that’s if we’re lucky and it’s not worse than it was today.”

Sherlock made a non-committal noise before sighing, putting down his untouched cup of tea and leaning into John. John tentatively put an arm round Sherlock, who was usually only cuddly after sex,

“Come here, love,” he whispered, “Mycroft’ll be fine, you’ll see. We just need to help him, be there to support him when we’re needed. It’ll be fine.” John felt Sherlock shudder against him and was shocked to realise that he was crying, “Oh god, Sherlock, I promise we’ll look after him, he’s fine, you don’t need to worry about him. Here love, come here, shush.” John continued to murmur soothing nothings holding on to Sherlock until he felt the younger man pull away slightly,

“Mycroft thinks I should tell you,” he said looking John directly in the eye. For a moment John thought about asking what but he had an inkling that he knew what,

“Do you think you should?” John asked simply,

“I’m not sure. I’ve never really believed that a troubled shared is a trouble halved, it’s always seemed that it was more like a trouble doubled. Mycroft said it would help you to understand.” Sherlock stopped speaking but didn’t drop his eyes from John’s face and the intensity alone, even though John was aware of how intense Sherlock could be was unsettling for him,

“If it helps,” John began eventually, “I want to hear if you want to tell me. I always want to understand more about you, Sherlock, you know that.”

Sherlock turned away and for a moment John was sure he’d said or done the wrong thing, but then Sherlock began to speak.

 

_“No, Sherlock, your mother is unwell again this morning; you must leave her to rest.” Sherlock looks up at his father and smiles a little uncertainly,_

_“Like when I ate twenty crab-apples?” Sherlock asks, remembering making himself ill gorging on wind falls from the wild apple trees in the hedgerows._

_“No, not like that, your mother is sick in her mind. I’m sure she’ll be fine in a day or two, I’m sure that by then she’ll have pulled herself together enough to see you again, but you must promise me that you won’t disturb her. Being bothered by you or Mycroft will only make her worse. You don’t want her to be more ill do you?”_

_Sherlock shakes his head, his abundant curls making the gesture look more emphatic,_

_“I’ll be really quiet and good, I promise.”_

_“I know you will, you’re a good boy.” Sherlock positively glows at the rare compliment from his father and can’t quite resist turning slightly to see if Mycroft has heard. Sherlock notices that Mycroft looks worried and thinks that he must be worried about mummy; Sherlock certainly knows that he is. Mummy has been getting ill a lot lately. When she first started being ill it was only for a day at a time, the next morning she would be up for breakfast possibly looking a bit tired but happy to see them. Now she is ill for longer at a time and sometimes it’s nearly a whole week at a time when Sherlock must not disturb his mother. She doesn’t speak much anymore Sherlock has noticed and she never sings like she used to. Sherlock misses her but he knows he must be brave because if he gets upset then she will be more ill and Sherlock knows that will upset father. Sherlock loves his father because his father is never too ill to see him._

_All through breakfast Sherlock is as quiet and grown up as he can be, he is careful to eat quietly and not knock anything over. Mycroft smiles encouragingly and helps him with the heavy milk jug for his cereal, Sherlock smiles his thanks but doesn’t say anything; mummy has often told them that their father prefers quiet at breakfast time. When Sherlock has finished cereal, toast and juice, Mycroft looks up from his newspaper and catches his brother’s eye,_

_“We will go for a walk, father if that is acceptable?” Both boys look to their father who is behind his own newspaper and grunts his agreement and they get up and leave the table. As they get to the door, he lowers the paper slightly and peers over it,_

_“Make sure that you are back here for lunch and that you don’t get your clothes dirty.”_

_“Yes, father,” Mycroft replies._

_They have a good walk and talk about many things. They talk about astronauts and the plants and animals they see. Mycroft tells Sherlock which of the plants are poisonous and sometimes he tells Sherlock about what the symptoms of poisoning by the plants would be. Mycroft wonders to himself if this is the sort of thing he should be telling his little brother but he knows that Sherlock finds it fascinating. They talk about pirates and Mycroft helps Sherlock to climb a tree with him and they pretend they are in the crow’s nest trying to spot ships of the line to board and commandeer._

_As they are climbing back out of the tree Sherlock loses his balance and falls the last couple of feet catching the back of his shirt on a broken branch and ripping it. He gasps, from shock, it wasn’t a long fall but when he hears Mycroft swear, he looks up to reassure his older brother that he’s fine. Sherlock can’t understand the look on Mycroft’s face, he seems to be very upset and there’s a look of almost panic on his face as he quickly climbs out of the tree and drops to a crouch to examine Sherlock._

_“It’s all right,” Sherlock says with an attempt at a cheerful face, “I didn’t hurt myself!”_

_Mycroft smiles at him but Sherlock can see the worry still in his eyes,_

_“I’m glad,” he replies, “let’s have a look at your shirt, turn around.”_

_Sherlock turns around like he’s been asked but he squirms and wriggles in an attempt to see his own back, a little bit like a dog chasing its own tail. He stands still suddenly when he hears Mycroft say another bad word. This is the only time he’s ever heard Mycroft say a bad word and now he has said two. Suddenly he knows that it’s serious, even if he doesn’t completely understand what it is that’s serious,_

_“What’s the matter, My?” he asks_

_Mycroft stands up and takes his hand,_

_“Nothing’s the matter, Sher, you’ve just ripped your shirt. Right can we run home? Then we can get you a clean shirt before it’s time for lunch. Right,” he says looking down into his brother’s smiling but nervous face and giving him the biggest grin he can, “One, two, three, I’ll race you to that Oak Tree!”_

_“You’re a poet, and you don’t know it!” Sherlock replies but he quickly realises his mistake when Mycroft takes off without waiting and he has to run as fast as he can to try and catch up._

_Back at the house, breathless and red faced, Mycroft stops Sherlock at the door,_

_“Can you be really quiet?” he asks, “Let’s see if we can get up to your room without anyone knowing we’re even here.”_

_Sherlock whispers in response, getting into the game,_

_“Like burglars?” he asks._

_Mycroft smiles down at him and ruffles his hair,_

_“Exactly like burglars, remember to walk on the very edge of the stairs so that they don’t creak!”_

_Their game goes well until they are nearly at Sherlock’s room when father appears at the end of the landing, coming from the direction of the attics. Sherlock doesn’t know why but suddenly he’s afraid, like they are real burglars who have been caught. Mycroft straightens up, his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder tightening. Although it’s a little bit painful Sherlock finds the contact reassuring._

_“What are you doing up here?” father asks, his tone harsh, the question directed at Mycroft._

_Mycroft swallows before he answers but does his best to look his father in the eye,_

_“Sherlock fell, I was just going to help him change his shirt.”_

_“Did I or did I not tell you that you were to make sure that you kept your clothes clean?”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_“Sherlock come here.” For the first time Sherlock wants to not do as his father tells him, he wants to hide behind Mycroft and if he can’t do that he wants to run away, however Mycroft gives him a gentle push towards his father and Sherlock goes. “Turn around,” his father instructs and Sherlock does so, looking back to Mycroft. Sherlock can’t understand why Mycroft looks so different, he has an expression on his face that Sherlock can’t understand, his hands are curled into fists and he is standing on the balls of his toes as if he’s about to start to run. “This shirt is ruined,” his father says,_

_“It wasn’t his fault,” Mycroft begins to speak but his father cuts him off,_

_“I am aware of that.” Now Sherlock is properly scared, he can see the look of fear pass over Mycroft’s face before it is quickly smoothed away. Sherlock knows it reminds him of something and suddenly he remembers last night when his mother dropped her glass, she had looked the same. “Sherlock,” his father continues, “go to your room, change your shirt and then go down to lunch. You are to go nowhere else do you understand?”_

_“Yes, father,” Sherlock replies. He tries to smile at Mycroft, but it’s difficult and anyway Mycroft is not looking at him, Mycroft is looking down at the floor and seems to be swallowing hard. So Sherlock goes towards his bedroom door. As he goes in he hears his father speak to Mycroft in a cold, hard way,_

_“Can you never manage to follow my instructions, boy? You’re as bad as your m...” the rest of the sentence is cut off as Sherlock closes the door of his room._

_Lunch is served at one o’clock as usual and Sherlock is waiting. It is not one of his favourite meals, he can certainly take or leave the salad but after the strangeness of the morning he feels the need to be extra good. His father joins him a couple of minutes later but as he peers round his father it makes him uneasy that Mycroft is not with him. His father seems more relaxed than he did up on the landing and so Sherlock asks him where Mycroft is._

_“Mycroft is unwell,” his father answers._

_Sherlock looks down at his plate, concentrating on his food for a moment,_

_“Does he have the same thing as mummy?” he asks his voice quiet._

_“Yes. It would seem that the apple does not fall far from the tree.”_

_Sherlock does not know what this means, and again he wonders about the crab apples, but that can’t be right can it, he’d have seen if Mycroft had been eating apples while they were out. Sherlock does not speak again while he eats he is thinking very carefully about what is going on. If mummy is ill and Mycroft is ill and his father says they both have the same illness, then will Sherlock also catch it? Sherlock knows that some illnesses ‘run in families’. He’s not entirely sure what that means but he knows that he heard it when his mummy was talking to one of her friends, when her friends still came to the house, about the friend’s sister who had two deaf children, so he supposes it means that they catch it off each other. Sherlock remembers another word, hereditary, he smiles to himself when he remembers the word, he can look it up in his dictionary after lunch._

_When lunch is over, his father turns to Sherlock,_

_“You may play in your room this afternoon. You must not disturb your mother or Mycroft, both are too unwell for you to see them. Do you understand?”_

_“Yes, father,” Sherlock replies although he is sure he doesn’t really understand, when he is ill he doesn’t want to be on his own. And if mummy is ill, then who is looking after Mycroft? Is he all on his own? It gives Sherlock a strange feeling in his stomach to think of Mycroft being ill on his own._

_“Good. Go to your room then.” Father smiles at Sherlock, but it seems to him that there is something wrong with the smile; it looks sort of excited but not quite._

_As soon as Sherlock is in his room he goes straight to the dictionary. It is a very big book, and he finds it quite difficult to lift, but he pulls it from the bookshelf and turns to the Hs. It’s not easy to look up a word when you’re not sure how to spell it, but guesses from the way it was said that it must start with H-e-r. It takes him a little while but he finds the word and reads the definitions:_

>  _1\. Law  
>  a. Descending from an ancestor to a legal heir; passing down by inheritance.  
> b. Having title or possession through inheritance.  
> 2\. Transmitted or capable of being transmitted genetically from parent to offspring: a hereditary disease._

 _Sherlock doesn’t think that his mummy and her friend were talking about legal things but he supposes that deafness could be a disease so he decides that it must be the second meaning. He has to look up some of the other words but after a few minutes work he feels that he understands. A hereditary disease is one that you get because your mummy or daddy has it. If mummy and Mycroft have it then it seems likely that he will get it too._

_Sherlock hates being ill and it doesn’t seem fair that he is going to get ill just because mummy and Mycroft are ill. He knows sometimes when he’s ill it’s his own fault, like when he ate an entire Easter egg all in one morning or the apples but this isn’t his own fault and it’s not fair. For a few minutes Sherlock sits with his arms folded scowling into nowhere before he realises that there’s no use sulking when there’s no one there to care._

_Once he’s thought that though he remembers that Mycroft is on his own. Mycroft knows lots of stuff. He probably knows what a hereditary disease is; perhaps he’s lying on his own feeling ill with no one to look after him. It’s not like he’d be disturbing Mycroft, he’d be looking after him, surely that couldn’t be a bad thing to do. Sherlock makes his decision; he will go to Mycroft and make sure that he’s all right._

_Sherlock is usually an obedient child and he does not take it lightly doing what his father has told him not to, he thinks it through carefully. First he decides that if someone comes to check on him they should think that he’s asleep in bed. He read about this once in a book, the girl in the book used a pillow and some old clothes stuffed under the blankets to make it look like she was still in bed. At first when he’d heard the story he thought it was silly, old clothes and a pillow wouldn’t look like a person but recently Sherlock has noticed that people don’t look carefully at things, they look but they don’t see. Anyway, it’s worth a try he thinks and he arranges things so that from the door it would look like he was in bed facing away from the door._

_Second he collects a couple of books, perhaps Mycroft will want him to read a story to him, Sherlock likes it when people read to him when he’s ill. He also collects his stuffed bear; the one that father says he’s too old for, because sometimes when he’s tired or scared, bear really helps. It’s hard for Sherlock to carry the three things and he decides rather than worry about dropping them and his father hearing he’ll use his back-pack._

_With everything safely put away, Sherlock shrugs the back pack onto his shoulders, noticing how much more difficult it is to do that without either Mycroft or mummy to help him. He goes to the door and opens it quietly peering out to make sure that there’s no one there and then on his tip-toes he creeps down the hall to Mycroft’s door. Sherlock is careful as he opens the door, he doesn’t want to make a sound. The curtains are drawn in the room and Sherlock can see his brother under the blankets,_

_“Mycroft,” he whispers, “I came to see if you’re all right, Father said you were ill.” The groan that Mycroft gave was not the reaction that Sherlock was expecting and it leaves him not knowing what to do next. Mycroft pulls the bed clothes over his head but Sherlock can still hear what he says._

_“Thanks, Sher, but I’ll be fine. Did father not tell you to leave me alone?”_

_Sherlock looks down to the carpet and stands, not sure what to do. Mycroft sounds tired and a little bit like he might have a cold, it flits through Sherlock’s mind that Mycroft may have been crying, but thinking that even briefly makes Sherlock feel awful, the idea that Mycroft might be ill enough to make him cry is truly frightening. Finally Sherlock answers,_

_“He did, but I didn’t want you to be on your own when you’re ill and I know that mummy couldn’t come to you because she’s ill, and, Mycroft, do you think I’ll get ill? Is this a hereditary disease?” He stumbles over the long words a little but he knows that Mycroft won’t make fun of him, he never does. Mycroft sighs and pulls the blankets down from over his face,_

_“Come here then,” he says, patting the bed in front of him as he pushes back slightly, Sherlock can hear him breathing like he’s sucking the air through a straw at one point, Sherlock knows that means that something is hurting Mycroft._

_“What hurts, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks as he climbs onto the bed, “something hurt you, what is it?”_

_“Nothing hurt me, Sherlock, what have you brought with you?”_

_Sherlock is still sure that something is hurting Mycroft but he answers the question,_

_“I brought some books because I thought that you might like me to read to you and I brought you bear because he always makes me feel better.” Sherlock smiles at his brother and as he hands him bear he gets his first good look at Mycroft, “Does it hurt a lot?” he asks in a hushed tone because now he can see his brother clearly he can tell that he has been crying._

_“It doesn’t hurt so much now,” Mycroft replies, “I’ll soon be better.”_

_“Do you really have the same thing as mummy?” Sherlock asks, “Because father said something about apples falling from trees when I asked him and I didn’t understand.”_

_Mycroft was quiet for a very long time and Sherlock finally asks if Mycroft wants him to read a story. Mycroft hugs him and says no, he doesn’t need a story,_

_“You should get back to your room, father will be angry if he finds you here. I feel so much better for you coming to visit me.” Sherlock looks carefully at Mycroft as he says this because he knows that sometimes people say things particularly to children that are meant to be nice, but really are just people lying. Sherlock can’t see that in Mycroft’s face and he certainly doesn’t feel it as his brother hugs him tight for a moment. Sherlock purposely leaves bear with Mycroft; Mycroft seems to need him more._

_After the first time Mycroft is ill a lot that summer and so is mummy, Sherlock spends a lot of time on his own. He learns to climb the tree himself and manages never to tear his shirt again climbing down. There are many things that puzzle Sherlock that summer and most of them have to do with mummy and Mycroft being ill. Sherlock has always noticed things, Mycroft has encouraged that in him playing games with him that are meant to stretch his ability to observe, but until now he has never used these skills in quite this way. He decides that he will watch mummy and Mycroft and see if he can work out what is making them ill._

_The first thing that he notices is that whatever is making them ill often seems to make them clumsy, he thinks this is a symptom, a word he has come across reading the medical dictionary he has taken from the library. A symptom is_

>  _1\. Medicine  
>  a. A physical or mental feature that is regarded as indicating a condition of disease, particularly such a feature that is apparent to the patient_

 _Sherlock wonders if mummy and Mycroft have noticed this symptom. In the end he decides that they have because often when do something clumsy, spilling tea or dropping something they immediately look at father who just as often closes his eyes almost like he’s in pain. Mummy sometimes goes pale when this happens, although it seems to Sherlock that she goes pale when Mycroft has been clumsy more than she does when she has. Sherlock decides she must be worried about Mycroft and going pale is probably not a symptom. Sherlock would like to talk to her about her illness but she really is ill such a lot that summer that he can never find the right time. Mycroft isn’t ill quite so much but when Sherlock tries to talk to him about it he always changes the subject._

_One morning when they are having breakfast Sherlock notices another symptom. Mycroft has just recovered from his latest illness and Sherlock feels very happy that morning, he knows that he and Mycroft will be going out for a walk and it seems like ages to Sherlock since last time they did that. It’s one of the rare mornings when all four of them are at breakfast and as Sherlock sits at the table and eats his cornflakes he can’t get the grin off his face, although he’s careful to be quiet so as not to disturb his father as he reads the newspaper. As Mycroft reaches to pick up the teapot Sherlock can see a bruise on his arm, no he thinks to himself not a bruise, three parallel bruises just above Mycroft’s wrist. Sherlock has spent all summer reading the medical dictionary and he knows that bruises can be a symptom of some very bad things. He tries very hard not to panic,_

_“How did you get that bruise, My?” he asks._

_Mycroft does not answer immediately and Sherlock thinks it’s funny that both Mycroft and mummy look to his father after he’s asked the question. When Mycroft look at his father he can see at once that he is very, very angry and from the look father is giving Mycroft, it’s him that he’s angry at. It doesn’t make sense to Sherlock, Mycroft isn’t being ill on purpose. It’s my fault, Sherlock thinks, I know I shouldn’t talk during breakfast and it’s not fair for father to be mad at Mycroft,_

_“Sorry, father,” Sherlock says trying to draw his father’s attention away from Mycroft, “I’ll be quiet,” he continues, but his father’s attention stays locked on Mycroft,_

_“I told you to remain in your room until you were fit to be seen.”_

_“I’m sorry father,” Mycroft apologises and Sherlock is shocked to see that both Mycroft and mummy seem to be frightened._

_“Get out of my sight, you will remain in your room until I specifically tell you that you may leave it, have I made myself clear?”_

_Sherlock could shout out loud when Mycroft gets up and leaves the room. He has been looking forward to Mycroft being well enough for them to go out for what seems like weeks. He decides to ask his father what Mycroft has done wrong,_

_“Father, why must Mycroft go to his room? He doesn’t seem to be ill to me.” Sherlock can feel mummy tense up when he asks the question and his father lowers his newspaper and stares at Sherlock in a way that makes him feel scared. His father speaks in a very quiet voice,_

_“Are you questioning me, boy?”_

_Sherlock swallows,_

_“No, but...” he doesn’t get any further before his father slaps his face with a back-handed blow. It hurts, it hurts a lot but more than anything it’s surprising, so surprising that Sherlock doesn’t even think of crying. From the corner of his eye as he watches his father he can see his mother leaning forward hiding her face, not looking at either Sherlock or his father. His father stands up and Sherlock can’t help but cower out of the way. He sees straight away that this was the wrong thing to do, he can see that it makes his father more angry,_

_“Stand up, you snivelling weakling!” his father shouts, before slapping Sherlock again, “What right do you have to cower from me. Do I not provide everything for you? Do I not look after you? Where do you think you would be if I left you to your mother’s ineptitude? I suppose you think your brother would look after you, do you? He can’t even look after himself. What did I do to deserve this? I thought at least you might have escaped the inferiority of your mother’s genes! Too bloody much to hope for. Get out of my sight!”_

_Sherlock stands absolutely still for the time it takes to breathe in and out twice. He is frightened, but he also feels angry. Not angry about the slaps so much as angry about what his father has said about mummy and Mycroft, especially what he has said about Mycroft. Sherlock sees his father raise his hand to slap him again and he quickly dodges round his father and runs out of the dining room. His father had told him to get out of his sight and he has done that, but Sherlock realises that his father didn’t tell him where to go, so instead of going to his own room he goes to Mycroft’s room._

_Sherlock panics when he goes into Mycroft’s room because his brother isn’t there,_

_“Mycroft!” he calls out and there is a movement from behind the end of the bookcase,_

_“Sherlock, what are you doing here? Father will be angry,” Mycroft emerges and when he catches a look at Sherlock’s face he stops speaking for a moment. When he continues his voice sounds different, Sherlock can’t understand why he sounds different but he does, “Did father hit you, Sherlock?”_

_Sherlock can’t quite make himself say yes; it feels like that will make the whole thing too real so he just nods his head. Mycroft walks over to him and hugs him, holding him very tight for a very long time, whispering the whole time that he’s sorry. In the end Sherlock feels like he has to speak,_

_“You didn’t hit me, My, you don’t need to be sorry. I should have known not to speak during breakfast, it’s my own fault.”_

_“Don’t ever say that!” Mycroft snaps and that is the thing that finally makes Sherlock cry, if Mycroft is angry with him as well he doesn’t think he can stand it. Tears start to flow down his cheeks as he looks up at Mycroft without an idea of what to do. Mycroft pulls him into another hug and Sherlock can hear him apologising again, “I’m so sorry, Sher, I’m not mad at you, I promise, you’re very brave and you didn’t even cry when he hit you, but you mustn’t let him convince you it’s your own fault, it isn’t, it’s his fault, not yours. Shush now, you must go to your own room Sher, if he catches you here it will be bad, I’ll try and come to your room later.”_

_As Sherlock turns to go, the door opens and there is his father looking even more angry than he had downstairs. As he walks into the room, Mycroft shoves Sherlock past him and out of the room. Sherlock turns but the door is slammed in his face and he stands outside listening to the noises from Mycroft’s room for what seems like an age trying to decide what to do. In the end he decides to go and get mummy. He runs down the landing and down the stairs and back to the dining room. Mummy is there but she is crying and Sherlock can see that she is hurt. Until that moment he’d never thought that father might also have hit mummy._

_“Mummy! Come quick, father’s in Mycroft’s room and he’s hurting him!” Mummy doesn’t even look up and Sherlock wonders if she can even hear him. He runs over to her and tries to pull her by the hand back up to Mycroft’s room but she won’t move. Sherlock knows that he must do something and so he goes to the telephone and dials 999._

 

When Sherlock finished speaking, John couldn’t think of anything to do but to hold him tight. It seemed pointless to cry for that young boy now but John had to keep iron control so as not to.

“How old were you?” he asked after a little while,

“Five, maybe six.” Sherlock replied with a shrug,

“And was that the end of it?” John asked, but he thought he probably knew the answer.

“Not completely, no. Father was in such a rage that he’d actually done enough damage to Mycroft that the police couldn’t ignore it. They encouraged my mother to take us away to stay with her mother. A day later he turned up on the doorstep apologising. He’d reduced her sense of self so completely that she believed him when he said it wouldn’t happen again. But you know how that goes don’t you? Grandma gave me her phone number and the next time it all got too much I rang her instead of the police. We went round the whole cycle a couple more times before we finally left.”

“You were very brave, you know,” John said. Sherlock just shrugged,

“I’m still not sure that what I did helped at all,” he replied, “particularly when I see Mycroft making the same stupid mistakes.”


	3. Chapter 3

In the cab back to Mycroft’s Anthea reviewed her boss’s schedule. If either Sherlock or Dr Watson had been inclined to watch her they would have seen her apparently using her Blackberry to retrieve it. In reality, however she had every pertinent detail memorised as always. She tapped away at the Blackberry, calling in favours, delaying some things, cancelling others altogether, putting people together to get the various jobs done even though they would be done less well and certainly less thoroughly than if Mycroft was dealing with them. Anthea was as efficient or very nearly as efficient as always but she regretted her efficiency once she was left with nothing to do but contemplate everything that had happened. No matter what scenarios she let play through her mind she couldn’t see why Mycroft wouldn’t terminate her employment; this had after all been a complete violation of his confidence and trust in her.

However, and with the thought she squared her shoulders, she knew she would do it again in the same circumstances and in fact she hoped that she would do something much sooner, that she wouldn’t hide behind either implied or explicit orders when it came to keeping someone safe. Beside her Dr Watson and Sherlock where not speaking as they approached the house for the second time that day but Anthea could sense them tensing up, preparing for, possibly even hoping for a physical confrontation with David. Anthea could have told them not to bother, as an important part of Mycroft’s world she knew where David was at all times, in the same way that she knew where Sherlock and more recently John Watson were. David was at his club, the club whose membership fees were paid for by Mycroft, wearing fine tailored clothes paid for by Mycroft, running up a ridiculous bar bill which Mycroft would pick up. At that point Anthea realised that she was holding her Blackberry tight enough to damage it and she forced herself to relax.

Anthea watched Sherlock and Dr Watson as they moved around the house. They had visited before but not often, Mycroft and Sherlock’s relationship was always fraught for reasons that were not always clear but seemed to stem from something in their childhood, or considering the age difference, in Sherlock’s childhood and Mycroft’s youth. Nevertheless, it was as though Sherlock in particular already knew his way around and Anthea was sure that this couldn’t be because of their visit earlier in the day. John had been brought up short when they had got to the dressing room by Mycroft’s clothes and the fact that he did not appear to own anything that could remotely be described as ‘casual’ or even ‘comfortable’,

“He doesn’t own a t-shirt?” John asked,

“ _I_ don’t own a t-shirt!” Sherlock replied.

John grinned briefly at his friend,

“No, you just seem to think I own enough for two these days. Anthea, what does Mycroft wear in his down time?”

It seemed like a stupid question and Anthea allowed herself an almost Sherlockesque eye-roll before responding,

“Exactly how much down time do you think Mr Holmes allows himself? Let me get the clothes.” 

John glanced up at Sherlock and they both went into the bedroom presumably to pick up personal items and probably judging by the expression on Sherlock’s face to destroy anything they could definitely identify as belonging to David. Anthea felt no desire to stop them. What she did feel, and it surprised her greatly, was embarrassed and self-conscious as she went through her boss’s clothes, selecting enough for a couple of days, ensuring that she picked the clothes that she knew him to favour and which were cut generously enough to cause little discomfort. It seemed wrong, Mycroft was a very, very private person, she knew, and she had known some of the reasons why for a long time. Now, suddenly she had a clear understanding of how that additional secrecy, in a life governed by secrecy, must have been for him. It made her feel simultaneously like murdering David and hugging Mycroft and she was unable to decide which of the two things Mycroft would like her to do less.

 

The cab ride back to the hospital with Mycroft’s belongings gave Anthea time to ponder what her next move should be. It came down to one clear fact; she had made public a situation which she knew that her boss had wanted kept private. There was no dodging away from that. It was true that she had done it to protect him, but he was her employer and an adult, she was not his mother, it was not up to her to look after him. As the cab got stuck in traffic, Anthea went back to her Blackberry preparing her letter of resignation. When it was finished, she read it through, it was terse but then what more was there to say in a letter of resignation but, ‘I quit’, she was not going to apologise because she wasn’t sorry.

Once in the hospital Anthea went directly to Mycroft’s room. When she had first come to terms with what Mycroft’s ‘minor position in the British Government’ actually involved she had been astonished by how light Mycroft’s security was but that was before she fully realised how low key he kept his work; he was the master of behind the scenes string pulling. She had heard Sherlock make fun of his brother about his distaste for leg work and knew that Sherlock meant it to indicate his brother’s laziness, but that wasn’t it, he wasn’t lazy he was just unfeasibly subtle. As a consequence there was no security person perched outside Mycroft’s room and when she entered it was to find him asleep. He was on a drip and Anthea allowed herself a moment or two to look over his chart, to check what he was being given, nothing but what had been discussed when John was there and when she examined the drip bag it was correctly labelled, the drip properly regulated and she could find no punctures in either the bag or the tubing. It was perhaps stupid, but she felt better for doing it.

When she moved back, away from the drip stand Mycroft had his eyes open and was watching her intently.

“How are you feeling?” she asked.

Mycroft dismissed her question with an infinitesimal shake of his head,

“Have you already submitted your resignation?” he asked.

While she expected the question it still stung a little. She swallowed before she answered,

“Of course,” she replied crisply.

“And what am I supposed to do with it?” He sounded tired and just slightly hoarse, probably she thought a result of the strongish pain killers he was on,

“Accept it.”

“And why should I do that?” 

Anthea felt her shoulders sag a little; this was hard enough she thought without being put through the third degree about it all. He must surely know that she had done what she felt she must in order to protect him. She took a deep breath and replied,

“Because I exposed your private business to your brother and to Dr Watson. While you didn’t order me not to, I knew that you would not want them involved.”

“It did not occur to you to call in our own security?” he asked an ostensibly genuine look of enquiry on his face. Anthea shrugged minutely,

“I judged that of the two you would marginally prefer that I involved your brother than our own security.”

Mycroft smiled, a rare genuine smile, not the sharp, feral thing that she more often saw when he engineered some minor or major triumph in his work,

“As it usually is,” he replied, “your judgement was accurate; I would definitely prefer that this ... matter was kept within the family. Please, sit down; we both know I won’t accept your resignation...”

Anthea interrupted, fixing her boss with a direct gaze, chin up, challenging,

“I did not submit my resignation ‘for show’, this is not some attempt to prove that I am an indispensible part of your organisation; you should accept it. This is not brinksmanship!” By the end of the sentence Anthea was aware of the fact that she was almost shouting at her employer, _well_ she thought, _ex-employer_ ,

“I should accept your resignation because you knew better than I that I was in a situation where I was out of my depth, a situation where I needed help? Or perhaps because you knew to a nicety when enough was enough? Really, Anthea, you are making too much of this, sit down, please, talking to you like this is making my neck hurt.”

Anthea tried to tell herself that it was this last plaintive and tired sounding appeal that made her sit down and nothing at all to do with the weakening of her knees brought on by the feeling of relief that washed through her.

“You’ve brought me clothes I see, did it take a lot of persuading to keep Sherlock from coming back to the hospital?”

“Not on my part,” she replied, “Dr Watson merely asked for your brother’s help in readying their flat for your visit, Sherlock began to argue and then appeared to change his mind.”

“Good, he’s clearly decided to tell John.”

Anthea wanted to enquire what he’d decided to tell Dr Watson but she made it a point of principle not to ask for more information than she was given and certainly not today. Mycroft made an attempt to sit slightly further up in his bed and sucked in a breath in pain almost straight away despite the rather heavy-duty pain relief that he was on. Anthea stood and went to help him and he accepted her help with a murmured ‘thank you’. She turned to the bedside cabinet and poured him a small glass of water for which he also thanked her before she sat down again.

Mycroft took a sip of the water and then seemed to become fascinated by the water in the glass, staring at it, turning the glass slightly. Anthea knew, could tell after her years of association with Mycroft, that this was one of the rare situations where he was indecisive about either what to do or what to say. If she’d had to guess she would have guessed that he wanted to ask about David. He looked up and met her gaze and she decided that now was not the time to stop anticipating his needs, although when it came to it she was surprised that she couldn’t bring herself to use David’s name,

“He’s at his club, and has been there since around eleven o’clock.”

Mycroft relaxed slightly and Anthea continued, “I would not have allowed Sherlock or Dr Watson to harm him.” and she knew an urge to say _before I got the chance_ , “Do you want me to let him know in suitably vague terms where you are? It would be potentially embarrassing if he contacts the police to report you as a missing person.” It was the last thing that she wanted to do and she was well aware that contacting David was the last thing that Mycroft should do at the moment, but her point still stood, there was just the edge of a chance that David would cause a fuss when he found Mycroft missing.

“It would perhaps be best to let him know that I am receiving treatment, he does worry so after one of his little outbursts.” Mycroft said quietly. Anthea was suddenly angry and simultaneously shocked to find that she was angrier at Mycroft than she was at David. She hoped that she had covered her sudden rage looking down at her Blackberry and arranging with a few deft clicks for a message to be delivered to David explaining that Mycroft was in an undisclosed hospital. When she looked back at her boss, it was to find him staring at her,

“Was there something else, sir?” she asked, the mask of impersonal service back on her face, or at least she hoped it was. Mycroft slumped back against his pillows, his eyes closed, and Anthea was shocked to see him looking so defeated. He sighed and then opened his eyes to look at her again,

“Perhaps you chose to submit your resignation because you could no longer tolerate working for someone quite as foolish as I. Would you like me to accept it? I would of course give you a more than glowing reference.”

For a moment Anthea had no idea how to respond to this, it was so unlike Mycroft to behave in this way, in the split second she had to decide on the correct response, she opted to go on instinct and to give way to the anger she had been feeling,

“Until these last few moments I had not considered you to be foolish. I’m just a little less certain now. Are you picturing me gossiping about your personal life, or possibly having a laugh about it behind your back? Are you under the impression that I considered you to be a child incapable of running his own life?” She took a deep breath, “I consider you to be an adult who is capable of deciding, for himself whether the fucking he’s getting is worth the fucking he’s getting,” she took another deep breath and continued in a much calmer, quieter voice, “I will continue to work for you for as long as you allow me to. It’s only fair to warn you that I will consider you foolish, in this respect only, if you go back to David, but I will continue to support you in that as well as in your other decisions.”

As she finished speaking Mycroft’s eyes closed and Anthea wondered if he was going to ignore what she had said to him, whether he was going to possibly feign sleep to avoid further conversation; she was horrified when a single tear spilled from beneath his eyelashes,

“I should go,” she said getting up. She did not want to put him in the situation of being seen when he was so vulnerable and she was regretting her display of anger but she sat down again when Mycroft spoke,

“Don’t go,” he said, “I’m sorry.” Mycroft didn’t speak for a long time and she was just considering whether he had fallen asleep after all when he spoke again, “I know this has to be the end of me and David, I’ve known for a long time that I would have to let him go, but each time I’ve managed to make excuses and I’ve managed to almost believe him when he said it wouldn’t happen again. Part of it has been pride, but I know now that I was not in control of the situation. What I didn’t expect was that it would hurt so much.”

He was obviously not referring to the physical pain and Anthea found that she was unable to quite decide whether Mycroft wanted to talk about the situation or not. He clearly didn’t want her to go, so perhaps he did want to talk it through,

“It’s bound to be painful, I’m afraid,” she said, “it’s been over five years. You have a lot of shared history,” she paused before adding, “and a lot of it must have been good or you never would have stayed with him.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Anthea left late in the evening, Mycroft had been convinced that he would never sleep and in fact from time to time he formed the intention to sign himself out of the hospital and go. But that thought left him with the question _where would I go? Back home? To David?_ The desire to do just that was almost irresistible. _I could go home,_ he thought _and maybe everything will be all right_. David was always much calmer after one of his outbursts as Mycroft mentally termed them, he would be concerned and solicitous and would look after him, he always did. 

For a few moments Mycroft remembered evenings spent in David’s arms and nights spent making love, and then he remembered some of those comforting words: _I’m sorry Myc, but you shouldn’t make me angry, you know what I’m like_ , or _Well you were silly weren’t you, you know what sets me off_ , and then all that Mycroft could think of was the couple of times when David had seemed to feel that Mycroft was not contrite enough and the beating had continued, that was, after all, what had happened this time. The casualty doctor had made it perfectly clear that another beating before he had healed from this one could prove fatal. _So,_ he thought, _I can’t go home, David would never forgive himself if he really injured me_. Even admitting it in the privacy of his own mind brought the sting of tears to his eyes. So he lay in bed and much more quickly than he expected the painkillers and his unutterable tiredness overtook him and he slept. 

He awoke with a shout in the small hours of the morning and even the limited movements he had made in his nightmare made all of his injuries feel like they had just been inflicted. He’d been back at his flat with David; an angry David. It had been less a dream and more a sequence of memories triggered, he supposed, by the pain. The last part of the dream had been a recollection of David holding him down and screwing him because he hadn’t liked the way Mycroft had smiled at someone. It had been painful and humiliating and throughout it all David had repeated a hissed monologue, 

“You’re nothing without me, you were nothing before me, you are mine, I’ll see you dead before I see you with someone else,” over and over again in rhythm with his brutal thrusts, with a counterpoint of Mycroft’s own voice, 

“I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, please David, I’m sorry” even though he didn’t remember smiling at anyone that evening. 

Wincing with every movement Mycroft sat up, wiping the perspiration from his face with one hand as he struggled to regulate his breathing. He looked at his watch propped up on the bedside cabinet. It was two-thirty.

That night, the night he had remembered in his dreams had been the last time he had really considered leaving David, or rather since David had brought very little materially to the relationship asking David to leave. It had been around six months after they had met, maybe a month after David had effectively moved in and six weeks since the first time David had hit him. The event had been some minor diplomatic affair or another, Mycroft could have recalled the details if he had wanted to make the effort. He’d only really gone because he thought that David would get a buzz out of the ‘You’re spoiling us Mr Ambassador’ atmosphere of it. 

Knowing David’s measurements he’d bought him a the full dinner jacket black-tie ensemble, miserable as he was Mycroft made a small huff of laughter when he considered that he should have known better when David referred to the dinner jacket as a tuxedo. The evening had started off well but David had become increasingly tense through the evening so that by the time they were leaving it was all Mycroft could do not to cringe. The taxi ride had been silent and the atmosphere had spread even to the driver so that when David got out of the taxi and Mycroft had paused to pay the fair, the driver had asked him if he’d be all right.

He’d been far from all right. Nervous though he had been he hadn’t expected to walk straight into David’s fist as he’d gone into the bedroom. Things only got worse from then, it had been nearly a week before Mycroft had not been in constant pain. And what seemed even worse now, when everything had been cast in the light of other people knowing, was that when David had finished Mycroft had apologised through his tears.

Mycroft recognised that he was unlikely to sleep any more that night, turned on the overhead light and picked up his book, glad that Sherlock had thought to collect it from home. He resolutely focused his mind on the _History of the Peloponnesian War_ glad also that it was not in translation, that he would need to focus on it even though he had read it before.

 

Anthea had chosen well, as he would have expected, and he felt much better when he was in his proper clothes but even the effort of getting dressed seemed exactly that, an effort. He hadn’t managed to sleep again last night after his nightmare and part of his weariness was that and another part of it was the fact that taking anything approaching a deep breath was impossible; on the two occasions when he forgot this simple fact the pain had brought tears to his eyes and he had ended up panting, feeling like he was suffocating for the lack of being able to take a normal breath.

Like the thought of her had performed some summoning Anthea knocked and entered the room almost as soon as he had finished dressing; she picked up the grip into which he had put his belongings,

“The doctor needs to see you before you go,” Anthea informed him, “in order to make sure you understand the strength of the pain medication he’s given you.”

Mycroft sighed,

“Did you explain about Dr Watson?” he asked,

“Yes. The doctor here seemed unimpressed. Shall I have Dr Watson speak to him?”

“John is here?”

“Yes, I think he anticipated...”

Suddenly even the effort of standing felt like too much for Mycroft and he slumped onto the bed. The impact jarred the damaged muscles of his chest and stomach and he hunched over sucking in short breaths. He didn’t even look up when he answered Anthea,

“Please.”

Mycroft tried desperately to get a grip on himself. He had never felt this weak even on the other occasions when he’d taken a beating, he supposed that it was because he’d finally given in; his weakness in allowing David’s violence was writ large for Sherlock, John and Anthea to see. He could hear the slightly hushed voices from outside, making out John’s voice and Anthea’s not by their words but by the tone of voice and the rhythm of their delivery. What he did hear made it clear that this doctor was every bit as suspicious of John as the casualty doctor had been. Summoning all his customary hauteur Mycroft stood up, adjusted his tie and walked out of the room. He broke into the conversation which was just beginning to be a little heated,

“Doctor Jun,” he said with a smile which he knew assumed all the authority in the room, “you need have no worries in releasing me into the ... care ... of Doctor Watson, I assure you that the only part he played in my hospitalisation was that of what the Americans call ‘first responder’, he was with my brother and my assistant here when they found me.” 

As the three of them made their way out of the hospital after Mycroft had refused in polite but unequivocal terms the use of a wheel chair, he was pleased to realise that he had been able to assume control of the situation, that he was still himself. 

 

Mycroft knew, who better, his brother’s sleeping habits and so was not surprised to find him up and awake at 2.57am,

“Sherlock,”

“Mycroft,”

Gathering the borrowed dressing gown he was wearing around himself Mycroft sat down in the armchair, at right angles to where his brother was laying full length on the sofa. The room was lit only by the lamp which sat on a small table off to the side. 

Unusually Mycroft wanted to break the silence, even though he didn’t want to talk about any of it; he felt that he could actually hear the wheels turning at generating speeds in his brother’s mind. Eventually he shook his head slowly and spoke,

“I think you are wondering how I ever let this happen, is that correct?” Mycroft asked, “It’s a question I have asked myself on many occasions.”

“And have you ever come up with an answer?”

“Many, each of them more pathetic than the last.” Mycroft stopped speaking and swallowed rapidly. “In the end, it hurt less to take the punches than to beat myself trying to ascertain why I permitted this to happen.”

Sherlock sat up and turned so that he was sat cross-legged almost but not quite facing his brother. He continued to stare and Mycroft, despite his training in resisting interrogation techniques gave way under Sherlock’s intense gaze,

“I don’t know, Sherlock, I just don’t know.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, with his hands over his face so that when he started to speak again his voice was slightly muffled, “When I met David I had no thought of any ‘romantic’ involvement. In fact I’m not sure I’d ever had any. I’m sure you understand.”

“I suppose I do at that,” Sherlock replied allowing himself a fond glance in the direction of his room and thinking of its current occupant.

“You were more fortunate than I,”

“I was more fortunate than I could ever have hoped, and certainly more fortunate than I deserved.”

The brothers continued to sit in silence until again Mycroft seemed to feel compelled to speak,

“He could be so funny and loving. The first few weeks were wonderful.” Despite himself Mycroft could feel a fondly reminiscent smile on his face, even though it pulled at the barely healed split in his lip. “He made me laugh. At that time there was nothing for me but the work and to be honest I liked it that way.” Mycroft’s voice dropped away and the two of them continued to sit in silence for a while before Mycroft continued, “David made me see that there was, even that there should be, more than the work; for the first time there was someone who wanted me to leave work early sometimes, somebody who loved me, who wasn’t ‘courting’ me for their own political advantage. Or at least I thought so.”

“What do you think now?” Sherlock asked, and Mycroft took the time to think rather than answering reflexively. Finally he did answer,

“I think he loves me,” Sherlock stirred at this but Mycroft spoke over him, “I don’t think he knows any other way to be, I think in his heart of hearts he does love me but,”

Sherlock interrupted,

“This, Mycroft, is not love. This is violence dressed up in the clothing of love, this is control, this is a power game nothing more or less.”

Mycroft sighed, it was not, Sherlock noted his usual pointed, ‘you’re being tedious’ sigh but a natural expression of regret,

“I know that, Sher, it’s hard to understand,” he paused and Sherlock pondered the use of a shortened name that he wasn’t sure he’d heard since Mycroft went away to university. “It’s like ... think about John, is there anything that John could do that would make you stop loving him?”

Sherlock wanted to protest that John leaving him needing to be hospitalised would do it, but he did Mycroft the courtesy of thinking about it. _Could I ever stop loving John? God knows I tried to, but it never did work. Would I still love him if he thumped me? Oh, fuck! I would still love him, I hope I’d have the strength not to be with him but I will always love John, whatever he might do couldn’t change that_.

“No.”

“Well, then...”

Sherlock interrupted him again,

“But he’s John and David is David.”

“And that is supposed to be an argument?” Mycroft asked and although it was said calmly Sherlock could hear the anger building in his brother’s tone,

“Not an argument, no, but I know you didn’t, couldn’t see David as the rest of us did. He pulled you down, constantly, Mycroft, belittling you, making fun of you, making you ... less than you are. We hated him for that even before we knew that he was violent.”

“We?” Mycroft asked, tensing up and sitting up, hands away from his face, gripping the leather arms of the chair. “David and I were a topic of discussion? 

“’We’ did not discuss you and David, although John and I may have shared our mutual dislike of the man. Anthea was as she always is the very pattern-card of discretion. You have no reason to be angry with her, although she and I may have a discussion at some point.”

“Concerning what?” Mycroft asked,

“Concerning the fact that she knew that David hit you and neither did anything to stop it nor told me.”

“I would have fired her if she had spoken to you about ... such a thing,” Mycroft responded abruptly before continuing more calmly, “How did she know?”

“Because you don’t hire idiots, My! She’s very observant, by her reckoning the first time that David hit you was the second time he stayed overnight at your flat. Was she right?”

Even in the dim light Sherlock thought that he could make out a flush of anger on his brother’s face, and the pause lengthened as the two of them sat in the warm, dim light of the table lamp. In the end Mycroft did not answer, choosing instead to attack,

“If it was so easy to see, why did no one mention it to me?” Mycroft asked,

“We tried. Anthea and I both tried, mummy tried. John wanted to try but I told him it was no use. I’m sorry Mycroft, but we all tried to tell you.” It was the last thing that Sherlock had wanted to say to his brother, it seemed inexcusably like rubbing salt into the wound but Mycroft had asked and so he answered. Mycroft leaned further forward and covered his face with his hands again. Sherlock continued to speak, “It was … peculiar... watching him undermine you, well actually it was peculiar watching you let him. He would say something that was clearly carefully thought out to embarrass you and instead of freezing him out or retaliating you would stop speaking and let it slide or worse, you would actually tell him he was right.” Sherlock paused again, getting up and going towards a cupboard under one of the bookcases. He retrieved a bottle of whisky and two glasses. Mycroft was astonished and raised an eyebrow at Sherlock when he handed him a glass, “It’s John’s – for medical purposes. I don’t suppose that you should be drinking it but…” He didn’t finish the sentence, instead he managed to fling himself onto the sofa without spilling a drop, “Did you even know you were doing it?”

“Sometimes, at first,” Mycroft’s voice drifted off and the silence between the brothers drew out. When he spoke again Sherlock could hardly hear him, “I didn’t want to lose him, I didn’t want to be alone again.” Mycroft swilled back the remaining whisky and looked at his brother with a challenge clearly in his expression, “You must think me stupid.” Sherlock sighed,

“No I think you human in a way that I didn’t allow myself to be, you were always braver than I.” 

Mycroft laughed, a bitter, brittle sound,

“It was not I who took steps, was it?”

“I suppose not, but it was you who held us together after I destroyed the family.”

“Is that really how you see it?” Mycroft asked.

“No, not anymore, perhaps.”

“Good, you saved us and now you’re saving me. I wouldn’t owe that debt to anyone else.”

“It isn’t a debt, though, is it? It’s more like me repaying my debts. You kept me alive for long enough to meet John, for long enough for me to know that I wanted to live.”


	5. Chapter 5

“How is he?” John asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes as Sherlock crept into bed. John sat up slightly trying to make out the expression on Sherlock’s face in the grey pre-dawn light,

“About like you’d expect,” he replied before quickly ducking in and catching a kiss,

“You’ve been drinking? That’s unusual!”

“Thought it might help My,” he replied, “not sure it did, but I know he wouldn’t drink on his own. I’ll replace it...”

“Don’t be daft,” John replied. “This is the sort of emergency it’s there for.” Sherlock kissed him again, more lingeringly,

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock paused and John raised his head slightly to look more squarely at his friend,

“What is it?” John asked. Sherlock didn’t reply. John turned slightly so that he could see Sherlock’s profile even obscured as it was by his arm. John would have been the first to admit that he couldn’t come close to Sherlock’s deductive ability ( _well, not the first_ , John thought, _obviously Sherlock would be the first to admit it for me_ ), but on his specialist subject, ‘The inner workings of S. Holmes of 221B Baker Street’ he was frighteningly good these days. “I’ve never heard you call him ‘My’ before,” John mused, “is that what you called him when you were younger?” John could feel Sherlock tense up when he asked the question and knew that he was getting close to what, specifically, in this unholy mess was currently bothering Sherlock. In the past John would have left it alone but he sensed that Sherlock wanted to talk but just needed a hand to ‘get over the hump’. “Where you close, when you were kids? It sounded like you were when you talked about your father.”

“We were.” Sherlock replied, his tone flat,

“What happened?”

“I upset him, he left me.”

“Left you?”

“Left me with her; please, John can we not discuss this now? Can you just hold me?” 

John didn’t even bother replying; he just reacted to the misery in his lover’s voice and gathered Sherlock into his arms, gently stroking his dark curls until he felt the tension slowly leaving Sherlock’s body, until they both slept.

 

It was odd having someone else in the flat; it was particularly odd when that person was Mycroft. Somehow even Sherlock felt the need to be tidier and more organised about the place; John even caught him taking his used tea mug into the kitchen. John had not really ever spent a lot of time with Mycroft, and the effort of making polite conversation was beginning to drag at him, _but_ , John thought, _if I leave conversation to Sherlock we might as well all three of us become Trappist monks_. In the end it appeared that Sherlock couldn’t take any more and he swept out of the flat, the only clue as to where he was going being a mutter that could have been ‘Bart’s Morgue’ but could just as easily have been ‘Smorgasbord’.

John got up to make a cup of tea. When he came back into the room, Mycroft was stood by the window in a pose identical to one that John had seen Sherlock in a hundred times, clearly watching his brother’s retreating back.

“You really do worry about him, don’t you?” John asked.

Mycroft turned and smiled slightly before grimacing slightly at the pain,

“Constantly, ever since I became aware that our father was violent towards mummy. Different things have worried me at different times but it’s always been there. It’s ... less now and I have you to thank for that.”

John had no idea how to respond to that and he found himself mentally flailing around trying to find an appropriate response,

“Thanks,” he started before biting back _I will always look after him, he’s my life_ , because it just wasn’t a sentence he could even contemplate saying to Mycroft, not even now. It wasn’t like it mattered; Mycroft was, after all his brother writ large,

“I know you’ll look after him, I know you love him, he’s needed that for so long and I had worried that what he had learned from our parents would prevent him from ever finding it.”

John flushed with an emotion that he couldn’t quite identify, somewhere between embarrassment, pride and confusion. 

“What was he like when he was young?” John blurted out. It was a question he’d wanted to ask Sherlock but had never been able to break through his reticence about his family to do so.

Mycroft smiled,

“You really can’t imagine what a loving, caring, happy child he was. I didn’t have a lot to do with him when he was a baby, as you’d expect, but it was obvious from the start that he was incredibly intelligent, he spoke at an early age and he was reading at an adult level by the time he was five. I have always loved him; he was the centre of my world back then.” Mycroft’s fond, reminiscent smile faded slightly and he turned fully away from the window towards John and moved to one of the armchairs.

“What happened, then?” John asked, “I mean Sherlock told me what happened with your father, but what happened between the two of you?” Mycroft made no answer, leaning forward instead, fiddling with the detritus of old evidence and new experiments which covered the coffee table in front of him, it was the first time that John had ever seen Mycroft fidget with anything. John waited a little while before continuing, “Listen, you don’t need to tell me what happened, I didn’t mean to question you, you’ve enough on at the moment, I just thought it might help you to get some things sorted out. All of this seems to go back to what happened when you two were boys.”

“It does.” Mycroft replied, “Sherlock told you about our father I understand? I told him he should, to help you understand, but I gather he didn’t tell you much past when he called the police?”

“Not much, no”

“Well,” Mycroft said, “the police came and managed to convince my mother that if she didn’t take us away, to grandmother’s house it turned out, that they would remove us to a place of safety, and so we went.”

“Sherlock said that he came after you?” 

“Yes. He was apologetic, he was sorry, he squeezed out a few highly unconvincing tears. Sherlock at five could tell that he was acting a part; I can remember the shocked expression on his face before he whispered to me that father was lying. That changed something in him, he knew that father had been lying about Mummy and me being ‘ill’ but somehow actually seeing his father speaking untruths made it all real to him in a way it had not been before.”

“I am unclear on whether Mummy believed him or not. She was never a stupid woman, but what I knew that Sherlock didn’t was the amount of pressure her mother had put on her to ‘go back to her marriage and make it work’. So we went back and he didn’t last twenty-four hours before he punched her again. Oh she hid it well, not well enough, but then even then we were both very observant children. I tried to talk to her about it but all I got was ‘you wouldn’t understand’. She would be amazed at how well I understand now, I think,” Mycroft added with a huff of laughter that clearly pained him.

“Are you up to date with your painkillers?” John asked, and was answered by a familiar expression on relatively unfamiliar features. “So, that’s a ‘no’ then. I’ll get you them.” John got up and went into the kitchen, carrying on his monologue at a slightly higher volume, “I can’t believe that the hospital wanted to warn you about taking too many of these things,” there was another pause while John counted the remaining pills and then stomped back into the room with two pills and a glass of water, “Is there a reason why you’ve only taken half of what you were prescribed?” he asked.

Mycroft sighed,

“I dislike having my mind … clouded.”

“What, more clouded than the pain is already achieving?” John asked,

“You have a point,” Mycroft agreed, shifting the position he was sitting in, in a vain attempt to ease his ribs,

“You should let me wrap your ribs for you,” John said and when Mycroft looked at him questioningly he continued, “it’s an old technique, hospitals don’t tend to do it much now because it encourages people to do too much and it needs monitoring, can lead to chest infections, but sometimes in the field it was needful.” John handed him the pills and then the water and watched pointedly until Mycroft swallowed the medication. “I’ll just get what I need,” John continued, leaving the room in the direction of the bathroom and it’s ridiculously (if you didn’t know Sherlock) well stocked medicine cabinet.

The process was mildly painful, but after it was done, John could see that Mycroft was more comfortable,

“We should take the bandage off every couple of hours or so for you to take a really deep breath, painful though it will be, so that we’re sure you won’t get pneumonia.”

“Thank you.”

John thought carefully about whether to push Mycroft for more information, part of him wanted to leave Mycroft alone and part of him knew that if he was going to help both brothers through this situation then he needed to know the ‘backstory’. What John also knew was that Mycroft would instantly see through any subterfuge to which he might resort to get Mycroft to tell him, the only way was a direct question, the worst Mycroft could do would be to refuse to answer him.

“So, what did happen? All that Sherlock told me was that he upset you and you left. I find that a little hard to picture.”

Mycroft took another sip from the glass of water John had brought him for his painkillers, clearly to John a way of putting off answering the question, or just possibly of giving himself time to frame his answer.

“He more or less had it right,” Mycroft said in a tight, quiet voice and his eyes when he looked up at John were almost pleading but John continued to look at Mycroft, continued to ask the question. Mycroft sighed, as if to say, ‘very well’. “By the time that mummy could be persuaded to leave father for good, I was thirteen and Sherlock was nearly seven and we had been back and forth between what had always been our home and my grandmother’s house probably half a dozen times. It was hard on everybody, probably the worst time was when father managed to keep himself in check for three weeks at a time and Sherlock began to believe that it was all over. I could see him begin to relax, begin to be that trusting child again before mummy relaxed enough to do something to ‘upset him’ and the whole circus started over again. That was the second time one of us had to call the police.” John wondered which of them it had been that time, probably Mycroft he thought, it would be like him to take the responsibility, to offer himself up as the punch bag if their mother didn’t back him up. It suddenly dawned on John that far from seeing Mycroft as pathetic as he was sure Mycroft feared this last few days had left him seeing the quiet, unassuming dedication he had for his brother.

“Living at my grandmother’s house was not frightful, but it was very different. She lived in a small town in a much smaller house than we were used to and she certainly wasn’t used to having two young boys around the place.” John smiled at that and Mycroft looking up at that moment joined him. John knew they were both picturing just how disruptive to someone’s well regulated life Sherlock could be. Mycroft coughed slightly, still wincing despite the tight wrap around his torso before he continued. “I spent a lot of time studying, entrance exams, in father’s words, no son of his would be educated at a bloody comprehensive, and Sherlock, I’m afraid spent a lot of time being bored and we both know that Sherlock being bored is not a good idea.” Again the two of them shared a smile. “I was undeniably not a good brother to him at that time. Mummy was in no fit state to deal with him, she was constantly torn between knowing that we had to leave and her mother who felt that it was better to be beaten than to contemplate the disgrace of a divorce.”

“Sherlock had managed to alienate the local children, because he had spent so much time with his elders he hadn’t really learned the right way to speak to other children and by then his talent for reading people was developing to a great extent; he tended to tell people what he had worked out without any thought for the consequences. I devoted some time in each day to playing with Sherlock, although play would not be the right word, it was more like training and it probably contributed to the trouble he got into with the other children, but some of the time I had to study and work and it was hard for Sherlock to realise why. Especially since I hadn’t the heart to tell him I would be going away to school. He’d lost such a lot in the previous year. I should have told him, warned him, prepared him for it.”

“One evening I was working on mathematics, which was probably my weakest area of study and Sherlock was hanging around in my room, being a nuisance as I saw it, keeping me company as he saw it. He was asking question after question, unremittingly and I asked him to stop, at least until I had solved the problem I was working on. With Sherlock rattling on in my ear the question might as well have been ‘given that x=7, derive God’s phone number’ for all the sense I was making of it. Finally when I’d asked him to be quiet a dozen times I snapped and smacked him.” John, used to having a sibling much more his own age didn’t immediately take in the significance of this to Mycroft. When John looked up at him Mycroft had his head in his hands and when he continued John could hear the unshed tears in his voice. 

“Have you ever had a moment, a moment that has changed everything, one where you would give anything to take back what you have done. That was my moment. I did not hit him hard, but apart from my father no one had ever hit him. God, John, the look on his face, the betrayal. I should have comforted him, but instead I ran out of the room, to the bathroom and parted company with everything I’d eaten for the week, all I could see was that I was just like him, I was just like father. And there was Sherlock, my victim as I saw it, standing outside the door asking if I was all right. I could hear the fear in his voice when he asked if I was all right.”

“He was still there when I came out of the bathroom. I told him to go away, I was terrified that I might hit him again, terrified of how like my father I was. All through that summer I kept my distance from him and made sure that he kept away, and at the end of the summer that’s when I went away to school.” 

Abruptly and without regard to his injuries, Mycroft was up out of his chair and again back by the window, as if looking for his brother again. John could see the shadow of his self-loathing around him like a mist. From the outside it was easy to see what that one moment had done to each of them but he knowing them both he could also see why they would never resolve the situation. One too scared of what he might do, one too proud to confess that he thought it was all his own fault. There was only one person who was to blame for the whole sorry mess,

“Is your father still alive?” John asked, not entirely sure which answer he wanted to hear. Mycroft was clearly surprised by the question,

“As far as I know,” Mycroft shrugged and sucked in a breath when he disturbed his healing shoulder.

“Pity, that,” John replied with a tight smile which failed to mask his anger, “I wanted to go and dance on his grave, I suppose I’ll have to wait. I don’t think it will be helpful for you to hear this, but I don’t think that Sherlock remembers all this in quite the way you do.” Mycroft looked away from the window and contemplated John,

“No?”

“No, in his mind, certainly then, he upset you, made you sick, made you not want to see him and then you went away. I think he’s thought it was all his fault all these years.” From Mycroft’s reaction it was clear that any other man would have sworn at this point. Mycroft, merely tensed up, his lips narrowing into a rigid straight line. John continued, “You really didn’t do anything that bad, Mycroft, all siblings fight, it’s built in. Harry used to thump the living daylights out of me. I’d had it drummed into me that ‘you didn’t hit girls’ but one day my mother saw Harry laying into me and after she separated us, she told me that if I needed to I could hit her. I’m not going to say it was good, but it really didn’t make you like your father. After all, you stopped.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, “I stopped but you tell me that even by stopping I caused him more damage.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was very late when Sherlock got back from the morgue, but both Mycroft and John were awake, half-heartedly watching something unspeakable on the television. Sherlock found it difficult to understand how much time John was prepared to spend watching what he referred to as ‘rubbish telly’, it was beyond him how it was a distraction, how John wasn’t bored. And now here was Mycroft, perhaps it was contagious. For a moment Sherlock considered just going straight to the room he was currently sharing with John but it was like John could read his mind and he very pointedly and completely non-verbally vetoed that idea and directed him to sit down.

“Were your endeavours successful?” Mycroft asked.

“Moderately, still some follow up work to do but it’ll need to wait until next time Molly gets an overdose case in,” Sherlock replied, his gaze wandering to the television set. It seemed to be some sort of panel discussion, _oh god_ , he thought, _with questions from the audience, puffed up little nobodies asking supposedly pointed questions of even more puffed up political nobodies_ , it was all that he could do not to kick the television set until it shut up.

Eventually it did shut up and John pointedly got up, collected up the cups that presumably he and Mycroft had been drinking out of and shifted them into the kitchen before he disappeared off to their room. Bastard, Sherlock thought, _I can’t just get up and follow him; I’ll have to leave it a few minutes, bastard_. Sherlock sat and fumed and he wondered when it was that John’s ‘manners’ had infected him, because he knew, just knew that a year ago he wouldn’t have worried about just walking out, would have revelled in it if there was a chance it would bother Mycroft. In fact it was even worse than that he realised as he found himself making polite conversation,

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, much better. John has made me take the medication I was given,”

“Yes, he does that,” Sherlock replied with a brief smile,

“And he, I think he called it ‘wrapped’, my ribs and that has made a considerable difference, he really is terribly useful to have around the place.” Mycroft continued with a smile. Sherlock could feel himself bristle at this, _useful to have around_ ; John was so much more than that, but before he could spit out what he was thinking Mycroft was speaking again,

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply that was all John was useful for, I know that you love him and it’s obvious to anyone that he loves you.” Sherlock was so surprised that he knew that it must show on his face. “I’m so glad that you found him, Sher,” Mycroft continued, “I’m glad you’re happy, I worried that it would never happen.”

Sherlock considered and rejected a number of responses to this statement, everything from the sarcastic to the frankly sickly but he couldn’t quite bring himself to utter any of them, he was floundering, this was not a conversation he had ever contemplated having with anyone, least of all with Mycroft, they had after all not had a serious conversation really since Mycroft had gone away to school. While Sherlock was still trying to come up with a reply Mycroft stood up and Sherlock thought for a moment that he might be saved from this conversation. Instead Mycroft took a deep breath which clearly pained him before starting to speak again,

“I think I need to apologise to you,”

“No, no you don’t,” Sherlock replied, the words tumbling out rapidly in a futile effort to prevent Mycroft from continuing,

“I do. I spoke with John this afternoon at some length, I am glad, by the way, that you chose to tell him about father, it did help him to understand and in turn he helped me to understand what I ... did to you.”

“You didn’t do anything to me, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, “really, I think John’s sentimentality has got to you in your weakened state, you should go to bed, I should go to bed.” Sherlock got up ready to escape, very sure that he really didn’t want to have this conversation even though he didn’t know why. Mycroft held out his hand to stop him,

“Please, Sherlock, I need to say this.” Mycroft’s face was so open, so like he had been when they were both children that Sherlock was brought up short. He continued to stare at Mycroft for some moments before he sank back into his chair,

“Very well, if you must.”

However, it seemed that now, with permission to speak, Mycroft couldn’t quite get the words out. Sherlock’s hopes rose and he began to think about getting up again and going to bed, when finally Mycroft started speaking,

“John said that you think I left you, is that right?”

The question surprised Sherlock, surprised an honest answer out of him,

“You did.”

“Yes, I did,” Mycroft replied and Sherlock was relieved and a little taken aback that he had not had to argue his case, Sherlock was so wrapped up in trying to work out why that was his reaction that he almost missed what Mycroft said next, “but not I think for the reasons you have assumed. You know and you knew then that I had no choice in the matter of going away to school; you were far too intelligent and fair-minded to hold that against me even back then. I think you know that father made it a condition of his not asking for a divorce that we both went to schools of his choosing and also that Mummy wanted to avoid a divorce because he managed to convince her that he would get custody of us.”

“I didn’t know about the custody thing,” Sherlock replied, “why would Mummy ever believe that he would get custody of us?”

“I don’t know whether she actually believed that or whether the threat was sufficient, by the time we left she had, what’s the word, ‘internalised’ a lot of what he had been saying to her for years, that she was useless and pathetic and would be nothing without him, it’s surprisingly easy to get someone to that state, as I know.” Mycroft said this last with a rueful smile that for some reason made Sherlock’s eyes sting and his throat tighten so that when he answered his voice was annoyingly thick,

“That’s the reason I most want to damage him, that he made you feel like that about yourself, it may not seem so to you but that’s much worse than the physical damage, how...” Sherlock stopped himself, cleared his throat, he would not ask that question, he knew how it happened, he’d seen how it happened, and now he found himself wondering if he’d helped with his sly digs at Mycroft about his weight and the other left over from childhood things. He swallowed again,

“I’m sorry for the things I’ve said over the years...” he began, but Mycroft interrupted him,

“Don’t, Sherlock, nothing you have said to me was in any way the same as what David has done, you don’t need to make yourself uncomfortable, you don’t need to think for a second that you are in any way like him.”

Sherlock knew which ‘him’ Mycroft meant, between the two of them there really was only one ‘him’. Sherlock was surprised by the vehemence that Mycroft showed in that assurance, it was certainly something that Sherlock had worried about,

“I’m not so sure about that,” Sherlock mused, “I worry sometimes that I’m as possessive as he is and whether that will develop into behaving like he did. I only allowed myself to get involved with John when I realised he wouldn’t put up with any sort of controlling tendencies, I knew he wouldn’t let me...”

Mycroft interrupted,

“You are nothing like him, Sherlock, I see almost nothing of him in you. I knew him for longer than you did, more than twice as long...”

Sherlock tuned out the next few words that Mycroft said because suddenly, there it was, perfectly formed, suddenly Sherlock could see what had happened and why and it was so clear, so clear and so stupid,

“You thought you were like him,” Sherlock stated and saw the minute flinch that Mycroft gave, “you thought you were like him and you kept away from me to protect me.”

Mycroft tried to smile, but it was a dismal effort, and Sherlock found himself thinking that the medication must really be slowing his brother down if he couldn’t mask his feelings better than this, it was by far not up to his normal standards, before he realised that for once Mycroft was not really trying to hide what he was feeling. Mycroft sat down and continued to look at Sherlock but now with an expression that he hadn’t seen since he was tiny, since the walks they had shared with Mycroft setting him challenges of observation and deduction. Sherlock spoke again,

“You were nothing like him, you are nothing like him. Did you seriously think I thought you were like father? I’m so sorry, Mycroft, I should have realised...”

“You’re sorry?” Mycroft said, “Hell’s teeth, Sherlock what do you have to be sorry for? You were not the violent one, you were only a child, you have nothing to be sorry for!”

“No, you’re wrong there, I never for a moment thought you were like father, I knew I was being irritating, I should have made sure that you understood that I didn’t blame you, I should have realised what was in your mind,”

Mycroft interrupted,

“You were six, Sherlock, I was nearly an adult, I should not have become violent and I really should not have kept you at arm’s length that summer, it was unkind and selfish of me when I knew that I would be going away in the autumn.”

“You weren’t violent, damn it Mycroft, you were twelve and I was being as irritating as I possibly could, hoping you would give up what you were doing and we could go for a walk. When you ran for the bathroom I realised how much I’d upset you, and then when you would hardly speak to me for the rest of the summer, I just thought I’d really upset you.”

“You kept bringing me things, when I wouldn’t let you in my room, I’d find them outside the door, left there like offerings,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock cleared his throat,

“I was trying to make up for upsetting you, trying to let you know that I wouldn’t do it again, that I was sorry.”

“I couldn’t risk the fact that I might hurt you, I just couldn’t...”

Sherlock interrupted him,

“You didn’t hurt me My, you might have surprised me, but that was all. I promise that you didn’t hurt me, honestly!”

“But it was in me, it was in me to return violence for love,”

Sherlock stood up abruptly and mentally cursed himself when he saw Mycroft give way to the smallest of flinches, _learned response to that bastard_ , Sherlock thought,

“It clearly wasn’t, that evening was the only time you ever offered me any violence, you must know that most siblings fight all the time when they’re younger, don’t you?”

“That was what John said this afternoon, but you were so much younger than me, I should have been able to control myself!”

“You did, you bloody idiot! What do you think control is? It wouldn’t _be_ control if it was something you could never possibly do, would it? Is this why you let David walk all over you? Tell me that wasn’t out of some ridiculous attempt to prove you weren’t like father? That you had the self-control that he didn’t?”

Mycroft slumped forward with his head in his hands,

“I don’t think I can tell you that, I think that’s exactly what it was.” There was a long pause, “It seems so bloody obvious and ridiculously stupid now.”

Sherlock got up and retrieved the whisky again, bringing both the bottle and two glasses back, pouring both of them a generous measure,

“But you know better now?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied before taking a sip of the whisky.

“What will you do about David?”

From the rapidity of his answer it was clear to Sherlock that Mycroft had already thought through the answer to this question,

“I shall find him a nice flat, move his stuff into it and arrange for him to be paid a modest monthly stipend.”

Sherlock grinned and reached forward to clink glasses with his brother,

“Now,” he said, still grinning, “that’s nasty!”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied with his own small smile, “I was rather proud of it myself!”

* * *

John was astonished when he was woken by singing and hymn singing at that. A couple of years of living with Sherlock meant that he had no trouble sleeping through violin concertos but singing, singing was unusual. Carefully and quietly he shuffled into slippers and pulled one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns round himself before going to look what was going on. When he got to the living room he was stunned to find Sherlock and Mycroft sat next to each other on the sofa, glasses in hand, singing what he now realised was a school song.

Looking at them he realised he’d never seen the two of them so close together, it was probably worth the lost sleep just for the picture of the two of them happily drunk, singing in harmony.


End file.
